


never give all the heart

by andibeth82



Series: a dialogue of self and soul [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers Family, Avengers Feels, Comfort/Angst, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Flashbacks, Natasha Feels, POV Natasha Romanov, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 14:21:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First comes denial, then comes anger, then comes acceptance, if you’re lucky, if you can even get that far. Natasha knows these stages better than she’d ever admit to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	never give all the heart

**Author's Note:**

> All the kudos to [bobsessive](http://bobsessive.tumblr.com) and [fidesangelus](http://fidesangelus.tumblr.com): my cheerleaders, betas, and otherwise all around amazing people who continue to put up with me as I navigate my way through these lovely little spy babies and their dysfunctional family.

First comes denial, then comes anger, then comes acceptance, if you’re lucky, if you can even get that far. Natasha knows these stages better than she’d ever admit to; she knows what it feels like pretend something doesn’t exist, what it feels like to have no way out and what it feels like to realize the weight of it afterwards. She can rattle off the amount of times that the cycle will occur, how long the feelings will stay in her body; she knows because she’s gone through it more times than she’d ever admit to herself, than she would ever admit to _him_ , and she knows that he’s gone through it too - on another level, maybe not as harsh but just as transformative.

Natasha is smart enough to know that this isn’t really acceptance, not yet – she knows because there are still times when she wakes up feeling on edge, and every so often, there’s a thought in the back of her mind that makes her want to run to the hills without looking back. But she’s past denial and she’s past anger (for the most part) and knows it’s a feat that she was even able to get that far to begin with.

So when she’s angling on her tiptoes to grab a coffee mug, when the first bout of sudden pain hits her stomach, she ignores it with the same stealth that she’s ignored arrows, guns, and blows to the head. It’s only when the second wave rolls through her insides that she lets herself react, feeling her vision blur.

“Fuck,” she hisses, pressing the balls of her feet against the floor, one hand instinctively closing around her abdomen. Another sharp ache causes her to balance herself against the counter and she closes her eyes, starts counting backwards from ten, gripping the skin around her stomach with incredible force.

“Nat?”

She hadn’t heard him approach, which in of itself isn’t unusual or something she would normally even blink at. But her discomfort puts her more on edge than usual and she snaps her head up a little too quickly, fighting a grimace while throwing one hand back against the curved marble.

“Jesus, I swear one of these days, you’re going to kill me.”

Clint’s lips twitch upwards into a half-smile. “Considering I let you off the hook the first time, I think we’re good for at least another few years.” He reaches for a plate and when she doesn’t immediately respond he turns, looking up with concern.

“What’s wrong?”

Natasha shakes her head, pressing her arm harder against the counter. “Nothing. I’m fine, really.”

Clint puts down the plate, a skeptical look sliding across his face. “Bullshit. What’s going on?”

She blows out a breath, running a free hand through her hair while his eyes rake over her body. “I just…I just had a little bit of pain, okay? That’s all.” She catches the worry that flicks across his pupils and looks away before she can let herself fully absorb it. “Clint, I’m sure it’s nothing. Besides, aren’t you not even supposed to feel these things for another few months?”

Clint frowns, the lines around his face becoming slightly more prominent. “You should see a doctor,” he says finally, and even before he finishes saying the words she finds herself shaking her head.

“I’m _not_ going to see a doctor.” Natasha about-faces and hears him shuffling behind her, can almost picture the eye rolling followed by the steps forward until he’s positioned himself in her space.

“Well, then, if you won’t see a regular doctor, at least see a S.H.I.E.L.D. doctor. I’m sure Hill can get you one of those. I’ll talk to the other agents; we’ll keep it off the record.”

Natasha turns, chewing furiously on her bottom lip as if she’s steeling herself against a reaction she doesn’t want to display. “And trust that Fury doesn’t pick it up somehow? No way. I don’t think so.”

“Natasha –“

“I’m not going to a goddamn doctor,” she snaps, her arms propelling forward with more intensity than she means. “If you’re so concerned about my well-being, find another way.”

“ _You_ find another way.”

“Excuse me?” Natasha spins her head and Clint jerks his thumbs irritably in her direction.

“You, Natasha. This is your kid as much as it is mine, but I’m not going to sit here and force you to figure something out. You told me once that you didn’t want me telling you what to do, so I’m not gonna make decisions for you.”

“That’s rich, coming from a man who convinced me to keep this kid in the first place,” she retorts angrily. Clint shakes his head with an unnerving amount of calm.

“No. I gave you _reasons_ to consider keeping it. You’re the one who decided to.”

At Natasha’s face, he raises his eyebrows backs away, moving towards the archway of the small kitchen.

“Call me when you figure out how the hell you want to handle this.”

The entire situation is infuriating, as infuriating as the week after she was supposed to die, the week that she spent fighting everyone who had the gall to come near her, the week she knocked four S.H.I.E.L.D. guards out cold under the span of two minutes until Clint got into her cell by sheer force and pushed her up against the wall, unafraid to get angry and unafraid of the fist that landed near his left eye.

_“Call me when you figure out who the hell you want to fight for.”_

“You’re a pain in the ass!” Natasha shouts as the ache in her stomach loosens, allowing her to feel a little more like herself and _fuck, this is why I didn’t want to have a kid_ , she thinks desperately, slamming her mug onto the counter and watching the watery brew splash over the side. _This is what I didn’t want to have to deal with and this is why I wanted to cut it out and this is why I didn’t want this to happen._

She bangs around the kitchen for a while longer, fending off fear and memories and anger until she feels herself return to something resembling calm, then takes her breakfast into the living room where Clint is sitting on the floor leafing through a stack of loose papers. Natasha perches on the armrest of the couch, her eyes following along with what she can read.

“You know that one of these days I’m just expecting you to have a knife waiting for me when I turn around, right?” Clint asks the question mildly, though she knows the amount of time it took him to respond doesn’t exactly equate to when he noticed her presence. Natasha smirks.

“Why do you think I sleep with mine?”

 

***

 

When Natasha was five, she broke a vase.

She couldn’t sleep, and in a vain attempt to walk down the dark hallway that led to her parents’ room, she had stubbed her toe on a dresser. The resulting action had caused the glass container to fall to the floor and her mother, upon waking up, had taken one look at the mess before folding her arms.

“Are you sorry, Natalia?”

Natasha wasn’t sorry, because it had been a mistake, and she would spend years after this incident continuing to not be sorry about things that were far from mistakes. It wasn’t a mistake when she put a gun to someone’s head or when she intentionally led someone into a trap. It wasn’t a mistake when she lied about her name, her age, her motives, and her ideals.

“Is this a mistake?” Clint had asked one night as he pressed a hand to her stomach, a question and action she came to recognize as his way of getting her to admit the acceptance she wasn’t ready to say out loud.

“Is this?” she had returned just as evenly with her lips on his collarbone, one hand sliding under the waistband of his pants. The pain in her voice was enough to cause him to pull away and the water holding court above her lids was a louder response than any yell he was used to hearing over the years.

“You were never a mistake, Natasha.”

 

***

 

Natasha often claimed that she didn’t remember her past, but that wasn’t exactly true, because Natasha remembers a lot, despite the brainwashing and the unmaking and remaking and shots and needles and voices and triggers. Sometimes was Natasha Romanov; sometimes was Natalia Romanova. Sometimes was Black Widow, the spider waiting in the web, biding her time until she went in for the kill. Sometimes she was nobody, a name without a face. Sometimes she was an assassin; sometimes she was a spy. Sometimes she was all of the above without knowing which one was real.

Sometimes none of them were real.

The years move forward and your life changes and you forget smaller details; you focus on the bigger picture, but you can never really _forget_ being unmade, after all, even if it all turns into a blur of names and faces and thoughts in the end. Natasha didn’t kid herself when it came to her memories, because she could fool most other people - including a majority of S.H.I.E.L.D. – but Barton knew. Barton always knew. She suspects it’s part of the reason he didn’t kill her in the first place, though she’s never actually followed up on that enough for it to be more than a mutually understood truth, an unspoken measure of trust that connected them beyond missions and hotel rooms.

“Hey.”

Clint’s voice is low, somewhere beside her ear, and she stirs against the sound as he repeats the word. She feels her body stretch slowly, one eye opening as she brings his face into focus.

“You okay?”

Natasha groans, lifting herself on her elbows as she struggles for her bearings. “I’m fine. I do sleep from time to time.” She settles back against the pillow while Clint lets out a long sigh.

“Yeah, you sleep. But you usually never talk.”

Her eyes, which have been slowly drifting shut in the aftermath of her awakening, snap open at his words and she watches his lips form a sad smile. It wasn’t entirely true, that she never talked in her sleep, and Natasha figured he was just being kind given the situation because he could have mentioned Lisbon, or Normandy, or even Hong Kong. The latter had been the worst, two months after their first mission together, still feeling each other out and not entirely trusting of the fact one wouldn’t knife the other to death in their sleep or lace their coffee with cyanide – in other words, just the right time for a trigger to flare unexpectedly in the middle of the night, causing her to unleash words Clint didn’t understand and grab for the weapons she kept concealed under the mattress.

“Do you remember the last time you were scared?”

Clint had held her arms down by her sides, knees digging into her hips, asked her the question over and over again as he tried to get her to level out by helping her recognize real fear, not imagined memories, and the only reason Natasha hadn’t kicked him in the face after it all was because he was the only reason she had come out of it.

And now he’s asking her again, and she’s trying not to roll her eyes.

“I told you. Budapest, when you got hurt.” She pauses. “Why the hell are we back on Budapest, anyway?”

“We’re not technically back on anything,” Clint comments evenly. “All I’m asking is, do you remember the last time you were scared?”

Natasha sticks her tongue in her cheek and closes her eyes. As her body relaxes he can see her visibly fighting with her posture, as if it’s taking all of her will to admit what she doesn’t want to say or hear.

“This morning.” She lets her skull fall backwards against the headboard. “When I…when I felt that pain.” Natasha opens her eyes, holding an unblinking gaze against the dark until she can see stars.

“It felt like when I would get shots. They would come into my cell, they would make sure it was at a point when I couldn’t fight back. In the middle of sleep, feeling sick…even at my worst, I was always ready with a knife, but they found a way. They never missed. They would stick me with needles and there would just be…pain. And then I’d wake up and I wouldn’t feel anything anymore. I wouldn’t know how.” Her voice drops to a lower register, a tone resigned and somewhat sad.

“And that always felt nice.”

She feels his body shift beside her, knows another question is coming, braces herself for its arrival.

“Natasha –“

“Clint, I swear to god, if you ask me about Budapest again, I will _hurt_ you.”

“That’s not where I was going, though anytime you want to talk about Budapest that’s not the middle of the night, I’m certainly game.” Natasha scrunches her nose and Clint ignores it, lets his hand trail under the covers until he finds the curve of her hand. “I was going to ask how it made you feel.”

Natasha pauses for a long time, then she lifts her head slowly and refocuses her eyes across the room.

“I want it,” she says quietly, suddenly feeling like she’s back in a holding cell, crouched on the floor staring up at a man who refused to back down and who refused to let her die. “I’m not normal, Clint. I never was. I can’t remember when I was. But the fact that this kid might be…have a chance…and us together…” She trails off, digging her fingers into the mattress, her toes curling against the sheets before she stills.

“They pulled things out my brain. Back in that place. They pulled things out and put other stuff in.” She meets his eyes. “You never really recover from that.”

Clint swallows down words that seem to stick in his throat, and places one hand over her palm.

“You’re Natasha Romanov.”

She lifts an eyebrow in response. “Am I?”

“Sure as I’m Clint Barton.”

“You make it sound so…formal,” she mutters, twisting her lips down. He smiles in spite of himself, drawing her hand into his lap.

“You’re an assassin and you’re a spy. You’re also one of the most stubborn people I’ve ever met. You’re loyal to a fault and you’re willing to wade into war because you’re not afraid to fight for the things you love.”

Natasha shakes her head at his words, huffing out something that sounds like a cross between a laugh and a sob.

“Res ipsa loquitur.”

_The thing speaks for itself._

“Yeah, it does.” Clint leans back and clears his throat, running a hand through his hair. “So I’m gonna ask you again, Natasha. What are you gonna do about it?”

 

***

 

“This is quite a change,” Pepper says in a voice that’s somewhere between “CEO of a billion dollar company” and “I know what you did in 2010.” She meets Natasha on the landing of the fourth floor of Stark Tower and they take the elevator to the penthouse together.

“Tell me about it. But I…I need to talk to someone.”

Pepper’s eyebrows rise into her bangs as the elevator dings softly, JARVIS announcing their arrival followed by the unmistakable voice of Tony radiating from God knows where.

“Tasha!” He throws out her name gleefully and now that she’s off the elevator, she comes into full view of his frame. He throws out his arms, gesturing to no one in particular. “I haven’t seen you since the great alcoholic debacle of ‘We Won the War.’ Thought you forgot about me.”

“That was the point,” she replies dryly, and Pepper chokes down a laugh. Unaffected, Tony shrugs and crosses the floor.

“I take it your boyfriend likes his new toys?”

At this, Pepper does throw him a look that Natasha thinks could silence an entire country if it came down to it and he backs up slowly, clearly understanding of the message behind the nonverbal glare.

“The man can take a hint,” he grumbles, spinning on his heel as Pepper about faces with a rueful smile.

“He’ll get over it,” she says nonchalantly with a wave of her hand, and Natasha doesn’t miss the way Pepper’s eyes follow the back of his body as he descends down one of the spiral staircases. “Trust me.”

 _I bet he will._ She slides onto the bar stool, fingers twitching against their resting place on her knees and Pepper regards her warily before setting her palms flat on the table. The move is every bit as polished and professional as Natasha remembers from her days as Natalie Rushman, and she almost makes a snide comment but thinks better of it.

(The truth was, for only having the position a week at the time, Pepper had shown more competence than most world leaders with years of experience.)

“So what are we talking about?”

There’s a silence and resulting look in Natasha’s eye that makes Pepper’s brow furrow, because it’s so unlike every incarnation of Natasha Romanov that she’s come into contact with. She takes a moment to let her lips relax into a small smile. “I’m assuming this is not official Avengers business, then.”

Natasha laughs once, short, shakes her head. “I wish it were,” she responds bitterly, and when had she reached the point where she would take aliens and government conspiracies and fighting over something like _this_? She places both hands on her lap and lets out a sigh, her face sliding into a patented no-nonsense look she knows she can at least hold easily without thinking too much.

“I’m pregnant.”

The speed at which Pepper’s Louboutin-clad feet uncross themselves under the table catches her off guard, to the point where if she didn’t know any better, she’d think maybe Tony forgot to mention that Pepper had developed her own superhuman abilities.

“You’re _pregnant_?”

“Four out of five home tests don’t lie.” It’s easier than she thinks, keeping her face neutral as Pepper leans forward in her chair. She leans back and the two women eye each other carefully across a silent barrier of unanswered questions and blames and debts and admiration.

“Does Clint know?” Pepper finally breaks the silence and Natasha nods slowly.

“Yes.” She twists her fingers together. “Barton knows.”

“And that’s why you’re here.”

“Actually, I’m here because I was hoping your boyfriend and his genius brain could repay a favor and make sure I’m not going to die on the table giving birth to this thing based on the fact I’m pretty much a tailor-made killing machine, but, you know. Small potatoes.” She waves a hand in the air and can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes her mouth, figures it counts as a small victory when Pepper breaks into her own grin before both women’s faces turn solemn at almost the same time.

“You need Tony.” Pepper’s clipped tone is quiet and matter-of-fact and Natasha sighs, knowing her body language is a dead give away of her answer, that it’s doing exactly what she’s trained it so well _not_ to do but not really giving all that much of a damn.

“And Bruce, probably. But yes, I need Tony.”

Pepper’s lips settle into a thin line as she reaches for her tablet, fingernails clicking against the screen.

 

***

 

“Seriously? I thought you couldn’t get pregnant,” Tony says with a frown as he leans over, pushing a hologrammed report aside with a flip of his fingers. It’s a less crude reaction than she had expected, all things considered, so she tells him as much before looking up with a shrug.

“So did I. The serum makes – well, it _should_ have made it impossible. But the tests are all positive.” She tosses a handful of small sticks into his space and they clatter to the floor, scattering under his seat. Tony picks one up, studying it almost too intently, and even with his body half obscuring her view, she can visibly see the large pink plus sign screaming its presence.

“Have you been to see a doctor?”

Natasha snorts. “You think a doctor’s gonna examine me, Stark? It’d be like giving them the prize of their lives. ‘Congratulations, you’ve won a certified super soldier lab rat! What are you going to do next?’ Come on.” She shoves a hand through her hair. “I’m telling you: I don’t know how, but I’m pregnant.”

“Well.” Tony huffs out a breath. “Miracles happen every day. Usually in the bedroom, at least, in my case. You say you conceived the old fashioned way?”

“It would appear so.” Natasha closes her eyes then opens them slowly, leveling her gaze as Tony’s fingers continue to fly, multicolored folders spinning across the room.

“Morning sickness?” He flicks his hand to clear the room, and she shakes her head.

“Right, probably too early. Overpowering hunger? Mood swings? Tell me, how _is_ Barton in bed?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Clint mutters from his perch in the corner, chin in hands, and Tony turns around.

“No, actually, I wouldn’t – in case you haven’t noticed, my relationship status currently extends to the other attractive female living in this Tower.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Adorable. And amazing. The point is.” She stops and takes a breath, fighting down the anxiety she feels starting to roll around in her stomach. “Am I going to actually be able to carry this baby? And I don’t just mean to term,” she adds pointedly, sensing Clint come up behind her. He takes her hand, fingers interlacing with a gentle pressure that seems to ease the tightness of her organs and Tony’s face finally turns a shade serious as he rubs a hand across his eye.

“Your medical files – well, what we can find of them. I pulled what I could from S.H.I.E.L.D. data; JARVIS is running those scans as we speak. That will give us something to work with while I try to finagle my hold on these other intercepts, could take a few days depending on security clearance – don’t look at me like that, not my fault you have a lot of history and it’s all over the damn place. Also, I’ll have to get Bruce to look at these more in depth; he’ll be a better judge of all the possibilities, chemical effects, biology and all that junk.”

“I’m surprised Banner’s not here with you now,” Natasha says carefully, glancing around as if she expects the Hulk to come charging through the wall at any moment. It’s unwarranted, she knows that; she spent enough time with Bruce after and during the battle to know that, but she can’t help the chill that shoots through her stomach as she swallows down the recollected fear.

“He’s in and out.” Tony waves a hand in the air. “Stayed for a week or two, then went back to Kolkata to take care of stuff. Whatever you do to take care of things out there, I guess. Anyway, getting back to this…situation. My highly informed opinion would be to suggest that in order to completely monitor you - “

“- I’m not five, Stark; I think I’m highly capable of taking care of –"

 “ - and make sure that things don’t get out of control –"

“ - myself and I don’t need a fucking medical _gallery_ –"

“- I’m advising that you to move into Stark Tower.”

That stops Natasha in her tracks. She blinks once and Tony shrugs, flicking his thumb to the side. “You can bring Barton. Provided that he doesn’t go on a joyride and shoot pedestrians from my window.”

“Says the man who almost killed pedestrians with his own suit,” Clint retorts, rubbing at his face. Tony cocks his head.

“I’m sorry, did you _miss_ the part where I was tossed out the window unceremoniously by a God with a glowstick? War waits for no one.”

“Tell that to the people downstairs who gave me the stare of death when I walked in; I think they’re still freaked out about everything here turning into a superhero show.”

“Names on the news, Barton,” Tony calls out as he strides across the floor. “You’re a public figure now. Better get used to it.”

“Yeah, well, I liked it better when I could see from a distance.”

Natasha tunes out the squabble as she migrates towards one of the tables in the corner of the workshop, hoisting herself onto the metal platform with little care. She lets her gaze float loosely around the room until there’s a noticeable silence, and a shuffling of feet in her direction.

“Hey. Relax.” Tony’s voice is decidedly gentler than Natasha would ever give him credit for, and she allows herself to meet his eyes. “I got you covered. As far as I’m can tell, and JARVIS can back me up on this, you’re not going to keel over and die before we can figure something out. Promise.”

“That’s a relief,” Natasha bites back, not feeling relieved at all. She meets Clint’s face with a smile that doesn’t quite go all the way to her eyes.

 

***

 

Natasha and Clint move into Stark Tower the following week, and really, aside from an increase in space, the only noticeable difference in living conditions is that there are three coffee makers instead of one, and the person making the coffee is either Pepper or Tony or a robot with one arm.

“Be nice. He’s a bit on the dumb side,” was Tony’s version of “good morning” when he walked in on her wrestling a cup away from Dum-E’s claw while muttering something that sounded vaguely Russian under her breath. “What the hell does that mean, anyway?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know,” Natasha replies, yanking the mug forcefully towards her. Tony makes a face.

“I’ll believe you, but only on the condition that I’m pretty sure you could kill me in five seconds if you felt like it. By the way, you’re pregnant. I’m not an expert but shouldn’t you maybe not be doing this coffee thing?”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “ _That’s_ what you’re worried about? Would you like to me to examine your liver at some point? Because I could make a pretty convincing argument about how alcohol impairs flight patterns.”

“Are we still stuck on my birthday? If you’re insinuating I stepped into the suit after drinking, I’ll remind you that I never actually got myself into the air that night outside of the house.” Tony flips on the coffee maker while Natasha sighs, shoving her cup under the spout.

“Never forget, Stark.”

 

***

 

Bruce arrives four days later, and walks in on Clint and Natasha having a conversation on the couch. He doesn’t seem overly surprised about the whole thing, which leads Natasha to be pretty sure that Tony already briefed him on most of the specifics of the situation, including their apparent move-in.

“It’s good to see you,” he says quietly, eyes down, after relieving himself of his luggage. She reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder, returning the sentiment because for all that her fears haunted her, he really _did_ have a lid on this thing and it wasn’t his fault he had to deal with the repercussions of becoming unmade, just like it wasn’t her fault she had to deal with not being able to control her own triggers.

“You, too. How was Calcutta?”

“Fine.” Bruce shrugs. “Had some families I promised I’d take care of before…well, before I left.” He shifts his weight. “Thought I at least owed it to them to come back and finish the job before leaving for good this time, you know?”

Natasha nods, the smile dropping off her face when she sees him lift a package of papers from one of the sleeves of his suitcase.

“I, uh, I haven’t exactly looked at everything yet,” he continues, broaching the subject before she can formulate her own words. “And I have to run a few tests. The serum that was used on you, it was a different version than I’m used to seeing in my research.”

Natasha looks up, her eyebrows knitting in confusion. “Different?”

Bruce looks down, squinting slightly in lieu of reaching for his glasses. “Yeah. From preliminary readings, it appears that you’re prone to some side effects but not others – the dosage of the serum that you got is less in quantity than was administered to other people who got this treatment, though I can’t quite figure out the specifics. I need a few more days in the lab before I can make an accurate assessment.”

“Oh.”

She twists her hands together, a nervous habit she’s realized she’s found herself doing more and more often; not being in combat or continually on guard has made her edgy in a way that would keep most people calm. Bruce reaches out, grabs her fingers, and she looks up with the same naked fear she once felt herself slipping into when it was just him and her lying on the floor of a flying ship, boxed in with tight corners and combustible material, everything from their team to the walls of their imagined home shattered and torn apart and on the verge of destruction.

“You know we’ll take care of you, Natasha.”

She nods, blinks once, the memory evaporating as her gaze clears and her eyes slip back into a cold confidence she’s entirely too acquainted with.

“I know.”

 

***

 

It happens just after 10, when Natasha is in the middle of getting dressed. She hears a familiar voice, the sound of bags hitting the floor, and then Clint is hurrying out of bed with interest and she’s watching Steve Rogers unzip his leather jacket. She doesn’t miss the “hey, long time, no see,” and she _definitely_ doesn’t miss the fact that the soldier’s face is brimming with something that Natasha can only describe as contentment.

_Still._

“Who invited Captain America?”

“I did,” Tony replies cheerfully from somewhere behind him at the same time that Steve offers a bemused “nice to see you, too.” Natasha steps further into the hallway, folding her arms in front of her chest.

“So this is now an entire Avengers matter?” She hears her voice carry over a few octaves higher than usual as Clint steps up beside her and she allows the comfort of his touch to temper the annoyance she feels rising inside her body.

“Well, no,” says Tony as he walks backwards, flipping a tablet out of thin air and punching in a string of numbers. “I’m not saying boo to Fury. And I have no idea where Thor is at the moment, nor do I care enough to take another trip into outer space to find out.” He spits out the last part sardonically. “But forgive me for thinking that the person who might be able to help aside from my other science brother here –" Bruce looks up from across the room over his glasses – “might be someone who has been in a similar position.”

Natasha meets Steve’s eyes, holding his gaze for just a second longer than she means to but long enough to not miss the flash of concern. She bites down hard on her tongue, tasting a hint of copper.

“Fine.”

There’s something tight pulling at the back of her throat and she rubs a hand across her face, turning on her heel and disappearing into the bedroom while dragging the door shut behind her. She sits down on the bed, rummages through the half unpacked bag by her feet, and pulls out a half filled bottle of vodka. She tips it back without hesitation and who the fuck cares that it’s 10 in the morning? Or that she’s pregnant? She _is_ Russian, after all.

Or she was.

She’s also not a fool, and if Stark had done his homework that day when he arrived on the Helicarrier, she had done ten times that, taking advantage to read up on Steve’s history, the serum and its results and Erskine and Howard Stark and, well, knowing mutually what had been done to each other was one thing. Openly talking about it was another, and it wasn’t like recent events had allowed the group the time for any kind of heart to heart chat, and Natasha had yet to open up to _Steve_ , of all people, about what did or didn’t happen in the 1940’s.

A soft knock, so gentle that Natasha thinks she would have missed it if not for her overly trained senses, breaks into her thoughts.

“Come in,” she replies just as quietly, watching Steve’s face peek around the door. Despite the constriction inside her chest, she allows her face relax into a small smile.

“I just came to see how you are. Tony’s got a room for me downstairs, but we haven’t seen each other since Central Park, so…” He trails off, looking a little uncomfortable, his eyes falling towards the bottle in her right hand. She stares back icily, almost daring him to make a comment, but he simply moves his eyes back her to face as he leans up against the door. Natasha sighs, acknowledging the silent pass of a test she didn’t even realize she had been giving.

“I’m fine.” Shifting, she takes a breath. “Kind of. And look, about earlier - I’m sorry. It’s a lot to take in. This pregnancy thing, if it even happens, and then being here with everyone. After everything, I wasn’t really prepared…”

“Hey, no worries,” Steve interrupts, holding up two hands. “I get it. I did kind of make an entrance, after all. Probably should have warned you.”

“Probably,” Natasha says with a faint grin, knowing that even if he had the option, it wouldn’t have happened but humoring the conversation anyway. Steve bites his lip.

“I guess I don’t have to ask what you did after New York, then.”

For the second time recent memory, Natasha can’t help the laughter that escapes her mouth, partly because it’s true and partly because she can’t remember the last time Steve Rogers made a joke that wasn’t based on the fact that he had no idea what was going on in the 21st century. He joins in, the tension in the room lifting slightly with the sound of their mirth, and she sees some of the rigid stance of his body relax.

“So what about you?” She asks quietly, looking up through a curtain of red. “What did you do after New York? Take a trip?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.” Steve puffs out his chest proudly, his voice taking on a tone of wonder. “Took the motorcycle south, did a bit of sightseeing – let me tell you, it’s amazing how much the world has changed. Did you know there are actual highways now? And mountains! There were mountains and rivers and man, I wish I had thought to take a camera. Roads as far as the eye can see, no end to the way they wind all around…and the beer! They don’t make beer like they do in Wisconsin.”

Natasha shakes her head at his visibly excited narration, pursing her lips together in amusement. “That sounds more like the Steve Rogers I know. You should watch yourself; you’re really living up to this Captain America name. Next thing you know, they’ll want you to sign postcards instead of comic books.”

Steve looks down at her words, the low light of the room shadowing the faint color rising in his cheeks. “I guess. I just felt like I finally had time to see the world, and, well why not? Nothing else to do. No responsibilities, no crisis for S.H.I.E.L.D. to hunt me down for.” He moves until he’s sitting next to her and she lowers her own head.

“So you came back when Tony called?”

She hears his breath hitch in his throat, knows most people who weren’t trained to pick up on someone’s every move would have missed the seemingly easy transition from hesitancy to assumed confidence. “I came back because I was going to anyway. Stark just gave me an earlier incentive. And then, who knows. Maybe I’ll go back to the mountains. Life is short.” He grins ruefully and she gives a tight-lipped smile in return.

 _Understatement, Rogers. Understatement. We could’ve died a month ago. We_ did _almost die._

“So we’re all just…living here.” It sounds slightly less overwhelming when she says it out loud and Steve settles his hand on top of her palm, his touch warm in a way she hasn’t quite remembered.

“Think of it less like an intervention and more like a family reunion,” he offers and Natasha can’t help but think that if given the choice, Steve would’ve practically run back to Stark Tower because it was the only time he had felt like he was part of something that was a real family.

It was the only time she had, as well.

But she wasn’t about to admit that.


End file.
